Burning
by Finwen
Summary: Maedhros stands before the fiery chasm, Silmaril in hand.


**A/N**: Maedhros-angst.  
  
Some Quenya names used, and explained in the **Notes** at the end.

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**Burning**

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I used to see them when I walked down the corridors. Watching me from half-open doors, watching me with eyes shining with pity, whispering to each other when they thought my back was turned.  
  
"Yea, truly, that is Lord Maedhros, the eldest son of Fëanor. Do you not know? He swore a terrible Oath to regain his father's Silmarils. The Oath has dogged him ever since, and they say that he is now mad and fey. They name him Kinslayer."  
  
They hissed the last word with the forked tongues of poisonous snakes, made all the more bitter by the truth it carried. I would turn, meeting their eyes with my own, dark with the shadows of pain. They would shy away then, leaving me alone, backing into the rooms and closing the doors, shamed.  
  
Or maybe it was fear; for to them I was mad and witless. Dangerous.  
  
They thought Father was mad, too. Though they did not say that when they first marvelled at the Silmarils, and praised them, and stared at them with desire dancing in their eyes.  
  
What do they know of madness?  
  
Findekáno would never speak of the crossing of the Helcaraxë. His eyes would go mist over at the mention of it and become glassy, cold as ice, and some dread memory would assail him.  
  
This only would he say: that the cold was so bitter that it could never be escaped, however many furs were piled on; that the wind howled ceaselessly, whipping up the snow in blinding flurries, and lacing everything with deadly ice; and that eventually both the body and the mind passed out into a realm of numb nothingness where not even the cold could be felt, and all that was desired was to lay down and rest forever.  
  
When he spoke of it he was cold to the touch, as if, at its mere remembrance, the ice had come back to haunt him once more.  
  
The stone burns my hand.  
  
The pain is unbearable. It burns. Burns with a fire so fierce that all feeling in my hand fades. It is almost as if both my arms end at the wrist.  
  
I clasp her closer, and her light flares up, protesting at the touch of my accursed flesh.  
  
I cannot let her go. She is beautiful, more beautiful than that faded memory in the chamber of iron at Formenos, where she huddled with her sisters, burning steadily in the dark, flooding the room with an ethereal, almost unbearable, light.  
  
I turn her over in my hand, hissing through clenched teeth as the smell of scorched flesh rises.  
  
She is beautiful. There is a light within her, shimmering and glittering at the very core, but she also draws all other light to her, capturing it, melding it into a rainbow mixture of blinding white radiance. The light is released through every facet, welling up through the jewel itself, until it bursts out in a torrent of living many-coloured fire, dancing patterns of flame, making the air quiver with the heat.  
  
She is almost alive.  
  
What did I dream in those long nights, when the Oath and the Curse pressed so close in the dark, and the Silmarils burned alone in Bauglir's crown, with only the evil eyes of Orcs and Balrogs to witness their brilliance?  
  
Did I dream of holding the precious jewels in my hand, of the defeat of Bauglir, of victory feasts in the halls of Himring, of an Oath fulfilled, a Curse thwarted, of a life without war and bloodshed?  
  
I am cold. Cold like Findekáno was. Cold, frozen by the biting winds upon Himring. My heart is lifeless, stricken by the death of so many beloved by me, and the death I brought to so many. I do not care any longer. I will not wander Endor forever with this stone clutched in my charred and blackened hand.  
  
The chasm below me is filled with sluggish, churning liquid flame: a crueller and more dreadful fire than that within the Silmaril. The acrid smoke of a forge's fire rises from the depths, stinging my eyes. Wave upon searing wave of heat beats up from beneath me.  
  
The jewel yearns for the lesser fire. I can hear her mournful lament, wishing to capture the light of the liquid fire for her own and change it to her own melody of blazing, ghostly flame.  
  
I hear the answering call of the liquid fire.  
  
"You are cold, Kinslayer. Come, let me heat you."  
  
It bubbles below me, gurgling contentedly in channels of molten magma. The Silmaril cries louder. The heat rising from the chasm is intense, promising a quick death, forgetfulness, eternal rest. I would be warm in the tight embrace of the liquid fire, melting like ice under a sudden flame.  
  
She desires as much as I to join the liquid fire. There is no future for either of us here, upon this Middle Earth, save for witless wanderings; and who will see her light when she burns alone upon a wind- blown heath in the wilderness?  
  
I step to the edge and peer down, Silmaril tightly clutched to my breast.  
  
Is this how Elwing felt before she jumped?

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**Notes**:  
  
o _Findekáno_ - Fingon's father-name (Quenya)  
  
o_ Bauglir_ - Morgoth  
  
o _Endor_ - archaic form of 'Middle-earth'


End file.
